


Nine-and-a-Half

by Sereq_ieh_Dashret



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sereq_ieh_Dashret/pseuds/Sereq_ieh_Dashret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical fic set at the beginning of the Ninepenny Kings War. Maelys "the Monstrous" Blackfyre reflects on the choice of joining the Band of Nine and trying to conquer the Iron Throne. Pre-saga. Rated for violence</p>
<p>This has been published on FF.net under the pen name of Tarja the Wind Witch and on the Valyrian Forged LJ community under the name of sereqiehdashret, both of which are still me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine-and-a-Half

To this day, Maelys had no idea of how his father knew that he wouldn’t have any other male offspring, that Maelys himself would be the last male heir of the Blackfyre line. He always suspected that his weak, bookish father had dreamsight, as poor Daemon II or some Targaryen kings of old used to have, and for this or whatever reason, he let him and The Other live, even if anyone else claimed that it would be more merciful to smother them straight away.

Nobody thought they would live longer than a few days, but they were stronger than expected and survived and, while The Other remained small and underdeveloped, no more than a small extra head attached to a short neck sprouting between Maelys’s neck and right shoulder, Maelys grew strong and slightly bigger than he ought to be, with a quite asymmetric upper body and somewhat distorted facial features.

  
Their mother and sisters assumed Maelys would be feeble-minded, as children born with this condition usually were, if they survived, but he disproved this theory as well: he grew up to be quick-witted, cunning and nasty-minded. It was only to be expected, seeing how he was treated when his father was not in sight. Kinslayer, they called him, since he had allegedly killed and consumed his twin in the womb, but it was not true. The Other still lived, somehow, even if he couldn’t talk or eat, and the only thing keeping him alive was Maelys himself.

  
When they were still toddlers, their mother proposed that they just hack off The Other’s head, but their father stopped her again. Somehow, he knew that they were too intertwined to make it feasible and that, if The Other was removed, Maelys would bleed to his death, so they remained conjoined as they were, much to their mother’s disgust. She couldn’t stand the sight of them, refused to touch them and to nurse them, and at the end their father had to enlist a goat and use a special bottle to feed them. They grew up barely knowing their mother and Maelys couldn’t even bring himself to cry at her funeral, years later.

Contrary to the general expectations, Maelys was not handicapped or bedridden either. He could walk and run as any other and he was a vicious fighter when other kids troubled him or called him names. He took up weapons training with a passion, sword in his left hand and shield in the other, weaker hand, and was recognized as a competent fighter, not by any means graceful or elegant, but violent and fierce, competent enough to join the Golden Company at sixteen. Blackfyre scions were traditionally awarded limited responsibility roles in the Company even if they were not exactly competent, such as translators or aides, just to take them off real harm’s way, and, at the beginning, it was thus also for him, until he proved his true mettle. He was brave, a fierce fighter and a cunning bastard, he got deployed to active duty and his position in the ranks rose accordingly: he got a captaincy before thirty (who would have imagined he would have lived so long?) and was elected to General-Captaincy before forty.

Even if he was beloved or at least respected by his men, he was still disturbing to behold, a monster of a man, over six feet tall, broad-chested and strong-armed, his torso asymmetric, the left shoulder higher than the right, attached to which The Other led his mindless existence. His face was quite deformed as well, as if he had been moulded by a wall-eyed potter, one eyebrow higher than the other, a crooked nose and a skewed jaw. He had none of the good looks of the family, but he still had bright violet eyes and white-blond hair. He cut it short, but his beard was quite long. Some days even he didn’t have the force to look at himself in the mirror to shave.  
Maelys the Monstrous they called him, and they were right. He was grotesque, god-awful and for this the male line of the Blackfyre lineage would end with him. The Blackfyre had maintained the Valyrian tradition of intermarriage, but none of his sisters or his cousins would have him, not even to keep the family lineage alive. At best, they pitied him, at worst, they were so terrified of him, that the mere mention of him touching them would sent them into fits of hysteria or they  were angry about the fact that a monster such as him had a better claim to the Iron Throne than they or their husbands-cousins had.  He couldn’t ask them such sacrifice, so he married them off to members of the lesser branches of the house or to other Westerosi exiles (there were whole lineages of Westerosi exiles to choose from, some as old as house Blackfyre itself) or even to nobles of the Free Cities. He could always adopt one of his nephews as his own to keep the lineage going. The lucky boy would be king of Westeros one day, if he accepted the Tyroshi’s plan.

He had to be realistic, even if he conquered it, he could never claim the Iron Throne for himself. Who would want a monster for a king? No, it would be way better to raise one of his relatives to that exalted position and fade to the background, knowing that he had done his duty. Young Harron was the best option, so far. Son of his sister Daena the Hysteric and a cousin, good-looking but stupid-as-a-mule Hagon who tried to lift his visor with the tip of a crossbow and ended up shooting himself in the eye and dying, the boy was the right age and everything a prince should look like, tall, slender and straight, elegant, well-mannered and charismatic. Yes, young Harron would do.

If he accepted Alequo Adarys’ proposal to join the Band of Eight, he would have enough forces to launch an attack to Westeros’ southern shores, or even to King’s Landing itself. Sure, he would have to deploy the Company to the Disputed Lands and Tyrosh first, to appease the desires of other members of the Band first, but then…  
Then he would finally set foot in Westeros, the land of his forebears. He had absolutely no idea of what it looked like and, to tell the truth, he had heard that the North was as appealing as an eunuch’s ass, but it was his bloody birthright and, even if he intended to forego it in favour of a relative, it was his duty to his family, the family he had failed so hard by simply existing, at least to try to reconquer what was rightfully theirs.

It would be no walk in the park, but if he managed to solve things fast enough in Essos, he could land on the Stepstones and then attack Cape Wrath, Tarth and the Stormlands or even King’s Landing itself before the Iron Throne knew what was happening. Thankfully, even black-blooded bastards didn’t live forever, and even so, Aegon V had ensured that Bloodraven was not in the picture anymore. The albino spymaster would have been an outright menace, with his capillary network of spies that could detect the invasion and lead the Iron Throne to nip it in the bud, before they had amassed enough troops to counter effectively. That could still be a possibility, if the Unlikely had a good enough intelligence network, but…

No, Goldentongue’s plan was risky, but it was the best opportunity so far.  
He doubted he would get anything better in years to come and he was not getting any younger. He was nine-and-thrirty already and, while he was still strong and hale, he didn’t know how long this state of things would last. Those like him and The Other didn’t usually last to adolescence, so death might be long in coming or just a few years away. The next campaign could bloody well be the end of him.  
He didn’t fear death: he had already lived nine-and-thirty years longer than he ought to and already had a couple of close run-ins with the Stranger, once when an arrow wound infected under the walls of Myr and he hung for two weeks between life and death before getting better and once when he almost bled to his death from a wound he hadn’t felt. Not all of the body he shared with his brother (he refused to think that he was sharing his body with a sister) was his own, his right arm was only partially his, he could use it well enough but he didn’t have as much feeling in it as in his left and there were patches of skin and flesh on his torso that were The Other’s, of which he almost didn’t have any feeling at all. A Lyseni sword pierced his armour right over one of these patches during a campaign in the Disputed Lands and he didn’t notice until much later, when he collapsed and his maester took his armour off. Sometimes he still traced the nasty scar it healed into, when he thought of the episode, and touching that flesh that was not really his was an unsettling experience.

No, he was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of failure. If he failed, the whole Blackfyre dynasty failed with him, as no one with a strong enough claim would be left.   
Maelys sighed. Maybe he should leave his scruples behind, get hold of one of the younger cousins, make her drink herself to oblivion and try to father an heir. Even if he didn’t have any experience whatsoever, it couldn’t be too difficult, seeing that even Halfwit Peake managed it, but he still couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had desires, like any other normal man, even if he was absolutely abnormal, but, deep down, he wanted more than the slaking of his lust. He wanted acceptance, he wanted affection, he wanted all that he had never had, but no one was going to give him what he wanted.  
No, it would be better to adopt Harron, to diffuse the rumour that he was his son, that Hagon the Oaf had always been a cuckold. Daena would understand the reason why, and, as long as she didn’t have to be within touching distance of him, she would consent. Why, she might even be happy about the fact that her son was going to be king…  
  
Maelys sighed again, poured himself a goblet of red strongwine and drank deep, glancing again at the map of the Free Cities hanging from the tent pole. From the Disputed Lands, Tyrosh was just a step away and from there, the Stepstone Isles looked exactly like their namesakes. Reaching Dorne or, better, the Stormlands would be so easy, with the support of the Tyroshi fleet…  
Maelys set the goblet down on the table with a thud and called to his aide, a Flowers. “Fetch me Goldengtongue, boy.” he ordered. His voice was the only normal thing about him but the lad scurried away immediately as if he was being followed by all the demons in ruined Valyria.  
Minutes later, the tent flap flopped open and Goldentongue himself sneaked inside in all his colourful glory. His pointed beard was purple as his clothes today and his short, curly hair was green.

Goldentongue smiled, showing a golden tooth, and bowed mockingly. “To what do I owe the honour, Your Grace?” he asked. With him entered another man, similarly clothed and dyed in garish hues of orange and violet.  
“Who is that?” Maelys asked curtly.  
Goldentongue shrugged. “A cousin, who is serving as my aide.”  
Maelys shook his head. He didn’t like the Tyroshi much, and he was liking the cousin, with his sarcastic smile, even less.  
“I have decided on your proposition. – he announced in a steady voice – The Golden Company will join your venture, Goldentongue. Your Band has found a Ninth.”  
Alequo Adarys smiled and clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed.  
“More like a Ninth-and-a-Half.” the other, younger and oranger Adarys commented sarcastically, not quite under his breath.  
It all happened in a moment: Maelys rose from his chair and punched the youth’s face with all his considerable might. His right arm was weaker, but punching was not about arms, it was about the whole body committing to the motion. He hit the Tyroshi square under his nose, from below and going upwards. The youth’s nose caved in and he fell to the ground, dead, his brain pierced by the broken bone, blood oozing from his nose and eyes.

Maelys heart sank. He had not planned to kill him. “What about the agreement with Goldentongue now?” he wondered, but Goldentongue himself seemed unfazed. He smiled slightly and nudged the corpse with the toe of his boot. “Problem solved.” he murmured, looking smug.  
Maelys gave him his hardest stare, one that made women faint and grown men run for their mothers. “You set me up to kill him?” he hissed, rubbing his knuckles.  
Goldentongue laughed. “No, I merely wished you would kill him. He was overambitious and thought he would make a better Archon for Tyrosh than me. – Alequo explained – He also had a certain wit and no discernment on when to use it, so I thought that it would do me good if he met you, my short-tempered friend.” the Tyroshi said, clapping a hand on Maelys’ left shoulder. Maelys stiffened; he was not used to casual touching. He shrugged the Tyroshi’s hand away and plopped back onto his seat, shaking his head.   
“See, you have already benefited me much, Your Grace.  –continued Goldentongue, who liked to call him by his royal title even if he was king of nothing yet and would never be – With your Golden Company we would make short work of the Disputed lands, conquer Tyrosh and then… Westeros.”  
The Tyroshi made a dramatic pause. “It would be a fantastic tale to tell my grandchildren, that I helped a king on his throne.” he added, smiling.  
Maelys did not reply, but poured himself another goblet of wine and drank deep.  
The Tyroshi, seemingly disappointed by his laconicism, lost interest and took his leave. “By your leave, Your Grace, I’m going to tell the others the good news. They will be thrilled.”  
“Indeed.” said Maelys, and watched the Tyroshi disappear beyond the tent flap.  
“Flowers!” he called and the lad came in a hurry.  
“Yes, sir?” he said, sketching a bow. Maelys was sorely tempted to throw his goblet at him, for being too courteous for his own good. He was a sellsword, not some bleeding knight.   
“Remove this corpse and tell the captains to meet here at the turning of the hour.” he ordered, irritated.  
The boy bowed again and scurried away to find men to help him with the first task.

Maelys shook his head wearily. In an hour, he would tell his captains of the new contract; at the same hour tomorrow they could be marching to the battlefields in the Disputed Lands. In a couple of months, they could be under the walls of Tyrosh and in six under those of King’s Landing.  
He recalled the Tyroshi’s words about easy conquests. “From your mouth to the ears of the gods.” he thought. But the gods were not a good reassurance, since they had a twisted enough sense of humour to create people like him.  
No, bloody blades and bitter steel were a far a better reassurance, the only one he had ever had.


End file.
